


Oh My God, They Were Neighbors

by sofancydancy (Lthien)



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Enemies to Lovers, Gen, Idiots in Love, Lots of Cursing, M/M, Minor Eskel/Jaskier | Dandelion, Misunderstandings, Multi, Popstar Jaskier, Yen and Geralt are best friends, but thinks jaskiers rather neat, ciri is a fan of jaskier, ciri likes pop music, eskel as usual has the brain cells in geralt's family, eskel is a big soft teddy bear and I will die defending this, geralt adopted ciri after her parents died, geralt and yen are the leaders of a slavic metal band, geralt hates his neighbor, geralt hates pop music, geralt is ciri's uncle, jaskier hates his neighbor, jaskier is a lil shit, jaskier lives with triss, jaskier says so, oh my god they were neighbors, past eskel/jaskier bc huhuhuhuhu, roach is a great dane bc it's pretty much a horse right, rockstar geralt, save yen from geralts mess, tatooed witchers, tattooed geralt, the witchers are part of the band, valdo marx is a creep, vine references galore, yen and triss both have two adorable idiots with no braincells
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:08:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28368153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lthien/pseuds/sofancydancy
Summary: Geralt had a problem. Scratch that. Geralt had a huge fucking problem. It started roughly around six in the morning…every morning.Who played the piano at six in the morning?!
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, other relationships to be added, past eskel/jaskier, past valdo marx/jaskier
Comments: 6
Kudos: 59





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SpongeRob](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpongeRob/gifts).



> I wrote this for my dear friend @spongerob after they were having issues of their own with pianos being played at god-awful times of the day! They helped me a lot with the plot and beta'd for me too...<3 I love them very much and hope y'all enjoy this story!
> 
> Also: Geralt and Yen's band is based off the band "Eluveitie"! Here's "Quoth the Raven": 
> 
> https://youtu.be/qyDUpTd4J1w

Geralt had a problem. Scratch that. Geralt had a _huge_ fucking problem. It started roughly around six in the morning…every morning.

Who played the piano at six in the morning?!

“Shut the fuck _up—”_ Geralt growled low in his throat. His voice thick with sleep as he hurled one of his pillows at the wall. His dog yelped and jumped from the messy bed, the Great Dane’s tail and ears alert. “C’mon…Roach, sleep.” He pat his duvet uselessly, eyes still forcefully closed, wild bed-head pressed hard into his pillow.

The piano picked up with gusto when the pillow hit the wall. He should have known…

“Oh, come on…” Geralt was half pleading now, his fists coming up to smudge the remnants of his eyeliner from his weary amber eyes. He flipped on his back and glared at the ceiling, lips thinned in a tight line.

“Fucking, _game on_.”

Head spinning, Geralt practically flew from his bed and grabbed the electric guitar next to him, nearly breaking the knob on his amp when he turned it on. Roach spun wildly, unsure of where to look or what to do—just excited to be involved.

Geralt’s fingers knew the instrument well, the neck worn from heavy use and the strings needing to be replaced months ago. His fingers still plucked heavily upon them, trusting it to hold on one more time—all in the name of vengeance.

The piano reigned on, its owner’s fingers soon matching Geralt’s tempo, much to his surprise. His lip twitched up in a half-smile, half-sneer. He was half-way through one of his songs when Geralt’s door bust open, revealing his furious, violet-eyed bandmate _and_ roommate. Her raven hair was mussed up in a knot upon her head and one pale shoulder slipped from the black over-sized tee she wore.

Geralt gulped audibly.

Fuck.

“what the _fuck_ do you think you’re doing?!” Yen roared and snatched the guitar from his frozen hands. Geralt stared wide-eyed at the wall, unsure when the piano had stopped. Roach yipped and jumped at her, tail wagging, but violet- _fire_ eyes were on Geralt alone. 

“Our neighbor—”

“Oh, don’t start that shit.”

“But, Yen— _ah!”_

Yennefer had him by the ear, pulling him along as if chastising a toddler. Being taller than her, he was bent low and could do nothing but comply, grabbing the closest pair of pants along the way and half tripping as he pulled them on. She lead them into their living room, pushing him onto the couch without care. Roach jumped up next to him, cuddling close, tail like a whip of joy.

“Jesus, Yen,” He grumbled as he rubbed his red ear and pet Roach with his other. “I can’t fucking sleep with all that racket next door.”

“Hmm,” Came the practiced reply. Geralt looked up to find her with a steaming cup of coffee in her hands, like magic. It was pressed close to her face, Yen taking a deep inhale as if the caffeine could be transferred that way alone. She was clearly as exhausted as he was.

They’d known each other since they were kids, both with shitty childhoods and equally messed up siblings. They’d created a metal band in their early teens and had found fortune in it. Their first band name, “Golden Violet,” was only used for maybe ten minutes before Lambert laughed so hard he near cracked a rib.

* * *

_“P-please god,_ ” _Lambert—aged sixteen, never learned how to fucking take a breath—wheezed, face purple with delight. “Please fucking use that name! It’s like James Bond, but ‘70s porno—”_

* * *

They obviously did _not_ use it, though Geralt still had the name tatted on his left wrist for sentimentality’s sake, Lambert still guffawing whenever he saw it. Eventually, the name “Hellebore” somehow became a thing, Eskel having gushed over the plant species for a near hour. The four of them, despite the name being botanically related, fell in love. Why? Because Hellebore sounded metal as fuck.

Apparently, a good half of the Continent loved it too. Thank the gods, because that was why they were as tired as they were: they’d just come home from a concert maybe three hours prior.

“Auntie Yen? Ger?”

Oh no.

Both Yen and Geralt’s heads turned to see Ciri entering the room, ash-blonde hair as messy as Yen’s. Who immediately met her half-way, pulling her into a gentle hug, having placed her mug on a near shelf. Roach abandoned Geralt for Ciri too, the dog circling both Yen and her wildly.

“I’m sorry sweetheart,” Yen cooed and rubbed Ciri’s sleep-warm arm, her eyes like ice upon Geralt who rolled his eyes. “Your uncle is just the biggest loser on the planet, yet again.” Ciri chuckled when Geralt and Yennefer both stuck their tongues out at one another.

“The loser is the one next door. Can’t fu—stinking catch a wink of sleep.” The words were only half audible in his gruff, Geralt rubbing his face roughly with his hands. As if that would wake him up.

“Here, you need this more than me.”

Geralt cracked one eye open and looked at the chipped mug offered to him. He smiled warmly, one arm raising as Ciri tucked herself close, Roach too. The dog was practically on top, the pre-teen giggling as Roach’s tail wagged wildly. Geralt groaned a laugh, taking Yen’s offering with a warm smile, who plopped in the chair next to them. She tucked her legs up close to her chest and yawned wide, Geralt raising one silver eyebrow at Yen and then smiling wider when she flicked him off.

“You sure you don’t want this…black poison?” He asked her after a close inspection of _pitch_ in the cup. “Christ, what potion is this…?”

“It’s called Columbian, you uncultured swine.”

“Yeah! _Uncultured swine_!” Ciri giggled and half tackled Geralt more than she already was, the man somehow managed to keep the ‘coffee’ in the mug.

“Whoa, I think this stuff might burn a hole in the rug if I drop it. We’d never get the deposit back.”

“Why? Are we moving again?” Ciri asked, her green eyes solemn as she looked at Geralt seriously. Geralt frowned at her, shaking his head. He put the mug down on the coffee table in front of them and cupped her cheek. Ciri leaned into his palm and whatever irritation Geralt felt before disappeared.

“No, we’re not moving anytime soon. Don’t worry.” Ciri hummed in thought, having learned that from Geralt very quickly, much to the chagrin of Yennefer.

“Even if your uncle has to put up with the _racket_ next door. Though, I have no idea what he’s on about because I sleep like a babe—”

 _And_ the anger was back.

“Yeah, because you’re on the opposite side of the apartment with the neighbors who care about people’s sleep schedule!”

Yen laughed, reaching up to tie her hair in a quick, messy, bun. “Like we don’t piss off the neighbors coming in at three in the morning every other day.”

Geralt had nothing to say against that, just grumbling under his breath about ‘stupid neighbors who should keep the music to the actual musicians’ which they all knew was a half-assed grumble because they were all half-dead on their feet.

“I don’t hear anything, Ger,” Ciri whispered to him, trying to listen to the piano that had stopped fifteen minutes ago when Yen bust in. Geralt sighed and pulled her into a hug, resting his head on the grey wall behind his head.

“That’s because Yen scared them off. You know, as she does.”

“Oi, you woke me from my beauty sleep. You can get wrecked.” Geralt smiled when he noticed Yen had stolen her mug back and her face was half in it.

“You need to actually breathe at some point. All that tar can’t be good for the vocals.” Yen flicked him off again, face still pressed in the mug.

“Aunty Yen’s voice is angelic, Ger! You know that!” Yen choked on her coffee from embarrassment and scandal.

“ _Angelic?_ Gods, our fans would love that! Where is my phone?” Geralt made a show of searching, despite knowing it was dead somewhere on his messy bedroom floor. Ciri squeaked with excitement. 

“You do and I’ll skin you alive,” Yen said with so much venom that Geralt half-believed her, but her violet eyes above the rim of her black mug told a much different story. She might only _half_ maim him. Which would totally be worth it.

Geralt slapped his knee, all of them alert. He looked at Ciri with wide mischievous eyes and they both clambered off the couch, Roach in tow. Geralt called over his shoulder: “Actually, Lambert would love that more!”

If Yennefer could shoot fireballs from her palms, Geralt would be a black smudge on the wall. However, he forgot that she had the aim of a god.

“Ah, _fuck,_ ” He growled when one of their ‘decorative pillows’ struck him square in the temple. He saw stars. _Damn._ “Ciri, this quest is now yours…I no longer can feel my legs.” He made a show of slipping down the wall, one hand thrown across his forehead. Roach huffed at him worriedly. Ciri made a woeful face and nodded.

“I will never forget you! I promise to tell uncle Lamb how well you fought!”

“Cirilla Rivia, you wouldn’t dare—!” Yen squawked in a laugh and squealed again when she saw Ciri leap over Geralt’s disaster of a bed to find his phone. Ciri made a dramatic sound of despair when she found what Geralt already knew: his phone was dead.

“Alas, our task is over! I have failed you, Geralt!”

“No,” Geralt called, back pressed against the wall, face full of mirth at the bewildered look on Yennefer’s face. “Tis I who failed, my young Padawan—”

Yennefer threw her hands in the air, one hand with fresh ‘ammunition.’ “You Rivias are too dramatic for your own good! It is far too early to be tossing around ‘tis ’ and ‘alas’! I don’t know about you, but I’m going back to bed. Ciri, you too.”

Ciri let out a low groan, flopping on her back, staring upside down at Yennefer who pulled a laughing Geralt to his feet. “But it’s Saturday!”

“And you don’t want to sleep in? What an odd teenager you’re turning out to be,” Geralt told her and plopped on his bed next to her, his feet in her face. She scrunched her face up and pushed them away, Geralt laughing now with his head thrown back, white hair spread on one of his black pillows. Yennefer leaned against the door frame, one hand on her hip, shaking her head at them both.

“I wanna hear this annoying neighbor you keep complaining about!” Ciri chirped and placed her hands behind her head, listening. Geralt chuckled, rubbing Roach one-handedly when she huffed at his face.

“Good luck, cub. I think they’re done messing with me today—hopefully. With their schedule though, I can expect another ‘concert’ tomorrow morning. Great. Oh, the joy. Can’t wait.”

“I surely can,” Yen yawned and waved at them both with one limp hand. “You two should really get more sleep. You especially, Ciri. We kept you up way too late this time. Next time Eskel can take you back home early.” Ciri groaned again and Yen rose one ebony eyebrow at her and she immediately stopped, but her lip was pursed in a pout.

“That’s all we need. For you to go deaf from one of our concerts. It’s not like we’re a folk band, you know.” Geralt laughed low at that, still feeling the soreness in his vocal cords from hours earlier. If he felt this way, gods knew how Lambert felt. He never knew when to reel it back.

“At least you’re mostly singing though,” Geralt huffed and rolled his eyes to look at her, white teeth gleaming. “I feel like I could drink all the tea in the world and still feel like I’ve gargled rocks. _Oh—_ ” Geralt cut off with a groan when Roach jumped on his chest, the man rolling her over towards a laughing Ciri.

“That’s because you and your brothers—scratch that, you and _Lambert_ —don’t take care of your throats as you should. If your voice gets any lower than it's usual gruff then we’ll really be relying on deciphering your _hmms_ and…what-nots.”

“My ‘what-nots,’ you say?” Geralt asked with one white eyebrow high and Yen glared at him, knowing he knew his two favorite words by heart and not to say them in front of Ciri; if he could help it.

“And your ‘fuc—‘!” Geralt stopped Ciri with a hand over her mouth. Very awkwardly, one might add, considering his feet were next to her face.

“ _O_ —kay, time for bed!”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Whenever Jaskier heard the grunt and groan of his pissed-off neighbor, Jaskier could practically feel a Grinch-like grin grace his face.
> 
> Was it evil? Yes.
> 
> Did they deserve it? Triss would say no and that neither did she, but Jaskier would say: yes. So what if Jaskier took out a little bit of pent-up anger from all the Valdo shit onto his noisy ass neighbors? Especially when they got to enjoy something he desperately wanted to enjoy too?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year! I hope this year brings all of you blessings that 2020 didn't give...Stay safe! Also: note updated tags!

Jaskier had a problem.

Okay, well…a lot of problems. To start, his producer had screwed him over—in all senses of the word. The point: Valdo Marx could die alone in a hole and Jaskier would cheer, and that’s not even half of it.

Three years.

They’d been together for _three years_. How Jaskier had put up with him that long was anyone’s guess, but he had. Until Jaskier learned that Valdo had been embezzling from him for at least two of the three years that they were together. Jaskier had lost millions to him, but the worst loss was his self-respect and confidence.

It was always the same story: He was blind. He was in love.

Or, he was in love with the thought of love. As he was in every relationship he had ever been in. In the end, they all wanted something from him. Money, sex, his voice…He was simply a profit to be made.

That’s what he had been to Valdo until Jaskier packed his shit and moved half-way across the Continent. His freedom wasn’t without cost, of course. Not when you reach the status that Jaskier had. He was a star and he could no longer deny that, or hide behind ballcaps and cheap sunglasses. You know, the standard ‘I am not a celebrity. What are you talking about?’ gig.

As it was, the media was ravenous for it. Even months later, Jaskier couldn’t check any of his social media or he’d see the same picture that multiple magazines pasted on their cover: himself with tears streaming down his face, one suitcase filled with his journals, lute strapped to his back, as he got in the back of a cab.

It was mortifying to see himself like that. He hadn’t felt that way since he’d left home nearly a decade earlier, after coming out to his parents. He felt alone for the first time in a long time and _Jaskier_ never was alone.

 _Jaskier_ was brightness. _Jaskier_ was fun. _Jaskier_ was smiles and sunshine, always. He was…everything. Until he wasn’t. Until _Jaskier_ was just Julian.

Julian, who was alone again.

Well, not really. He still had the one true friend he’d ever been blessed with: Triss Merigold. Truly golden, as her namesake says. He’d lost all of his ‘friends’ when he left Valdo. All but Triss, who had been begging him to leave Marx for years. He should have listened. She was always right—not that he’d tell her that.

Having nowhere else to go, he’d moved in with Triss. Triss was Jaskier’s rock. She was the one that didn’t let him sink into a depression puddle like he had wanted to do. Too, whenever he was sinking, she was there to pull him back up. Triss deserved the whole world and definitely didn’t deserve the literal baggage that Jaskier had.

Too, being the pop star that he was, Triss dealt with him dragging in nearly a small studio’s worth of stuff into her three-bedroom flat. You know, the stuff that Valdo _hadn’t_ broken. To be fair, it wasn’t anything that Jaskier couldn’t buy more of, but it was still _his stuff._ Still, _his_ stuff that he’d bought with his own money long before Valdo…long before he went Platinum—before fame.

So, yeah. Triss deserved much more than having to deal with a heartbroken pop star making camp in her space. She deserved much better than having a pop star with nothing better to do for months of hiding away than to write, write, write, and sing, sing, sing.

The worst part: Jaskier’s best creative moments always came early in the morning. Like, three in the morning kind of inspiration. When the coffee is buzzing so badly in your veins that you think your heart might burst. Or, when your eyes burn so much but you know that if you were to blink you’d have to go to sleep. Those were the moments that Jaskier lived for. It was what made him what he was and Valdo, despite him saying so, had had no hand in Jaskier’s immediate success.

Valdo already had what was coming to him: Jaskier was about to sue the shit out of him. He had hired the best lawyers that he could find—ones that he knew Valdo couldn’t out-buy. Valdo thought that he’d owned Jaskier. Music, body, voice, and soul.

No one owned _Jaskier._

 _No one_ and Jaskier’s next single was a testament to that. He’d been working since maybe day two of moving in with Triss, much to her dismay, he was sure. But she was happy for him—to see him try so hard to get over a jackass that didn’t deserve him. Too, it was thrilling for her to see how Jaskier worked; no matter how maniacally.

To Triss, Jaskier was a marvel. Actually, she was sure that he was a marvel to many who got to work with him. His dedication to his craft was mesmerizing. Too, for being revered as a near king-of-pop, Jaskier felt zero restraint when it came to exploring multiple genres. Pop, folk, folk-rock, electronica…Jaskier loved all music.

If you were to ask Jaskier his favorite bands, there were so many variants and flavors that it would give you whiplash. One of his inspirations was actually a heavy metal band: Hellebore. It was Hellebore that gave Jaskier the idea for his own name…they both being the same plant: buttercups. Though, ‘Jaskier’ was definitely the more mellow version (all puns intended).

As for Hellebore, Jaskier had been a fan since his rebellious teenage years. And, boy, was Jaskier the rebellious type—always had been. He was always waiting for the media to resurface his punk phase. Honestly, it was glorious. Pierced septum, eyebrow…cropped, bleached hair, dyed a million different colors that still was recovering a decade later. Yeah, he was living his best life. Especially when it pissed off his parents.

Hellebore was one of his obsessions that never quite faded. He’d been to several of their shows over the years, but as he got more and more popular…he couldn’t really go to concerts anymore. Not when he himself ate, slept, and breathed music.

In total, Jaskier was a fan of Hellebore for a decade. Unlike Jaskier, who had found fame in his mid-twenties, Hellebore had found fame soon after they formed when they were teens, like magic. In a way, to Jaskier, it felt like they’d grown up together.

To the despair of Valdo, Jaskier had multiple band tees. Especially that of his teenage crush: Eskel Rivia. Shit. He was everything. Honestly, the whole Rivia family was drop-dead gorgeous. Even their lead female vocalist, Yennefer Vengerburg, was someone Jaskier wouldn’t think twice about falling in bed with. But, there was something special about Eskel that Jaskier always adored.

Eskel had a softness that his other brothers didn’t have. Or, didn’t show. Too, Eskel had gotten seriously injured about six years back that resulted in heavy scarring of half of his face. The band never revealed what had happened, but the band nearly broke up as all their attention (of course) was on Eskel’s recovery, both mental and physical.

Jaskier still remembered the day when the band had announced that they were doing well and all of them would return. It was horrible scarring and would never truly heal. Anyone with eyes could tell how Eskel had felt about them—it was written in his changed posture and low-casted eyes. However, the fans hadn’t attacked Eskel for it and instead opened their arms with love for him. Too, it fit the scene. A heavy metal singer/guitarist with mysterious facial scars? Jaskier had wanted to eat him up.

When he was seventeen, Jaskier had gotten the chance.

Seventeen-year-old Jaskier had saved up every penny that he had and bought front row tickets to a gig they had booked three blocks away from his parent’s house. He had snuck out of course, as his parents would have never allowed him to go to a _rock_ concert.

He’d had the time of his life and had something thrilling happen that only stupid romance novels spoke about: he had caught Eskel of Rivia’s eye.

Capture this: seventeen-year-old Julian Pankratz kissing then eighteen-year-old Eskel Rivia, of Hellebore,—one of his _favorite bands_ and _crush—_ behind the band’s beat-up tour bus. Even better? It was his first real kiss and it was all teeth and tongue. This was before Eskel’s accident, of course, but Jaskier bet that he would still kiss the hell out of him again, given the chance.

But that was once in a lifetime chance. One that Jaskier recalled with soft affection and an aching heart when he remembered the soft, kiss-warm, skin of Eskel’s cheeks—scar free in every sense of the word. Too, the way that Eskel had gripped his purposefully ripped tee and hauled him into his kisses, more tender than a stranger rightly deserved—fan or not.

 _Anywho_ _—_

Jaskier, even a decade later, was ravenous for their concerts. The problem was that Hellebore had a habit of not telling their fans when and where their next performance was. Too, again, Jaskier was famous.

Even worse? His and Triss’ neighbors were undoubtedly going to each and every one— _the bastards._ He knew this because he still followed a blog that would tell Hellebore fans when and where a concert was taking place. Honestly, whoever ran the site deserved to be paid for their service, and possibly mentally evaluated because they probably never got any sleep.

Jaskier was so jealous of his neighbors that he wouldn’t be surprised if they could feel his ill-will radiating from the walls. Too, because they would go out so much and return so late, they messed with Jaskier’s creative flow. One thing that gave him great joy, however, was to play an instrument at the early hours of the morning when they had returned maybe only an hour or two prior due to a Hellebore concert.

Whenever Jaskier heard the grunt and groan of his pissed-off neighbor, Jaskier could practically feel a Grinch-like grin grace his face.

Was it evil? Yes.

Did they deserve it? Triss would say no and that neither did she, but Jaskier would say: _yes._ So, what if Jaskier took out a little bit of pent-up anger from all the Valdo shit onto his noisy ass neighbors? Especially when they got to enjoy something he desperately wanted to enjoy too? Honestly though, from the low grunts that radiated from the surprisingly thin walls of Triss’ apartment, the neighbor that was closest to his room was likely male—a pissed off one too. 

Also: very talented. Whenever Jaskier would mess with them, he would either get angry shouts, or the riff of a guitar. Too, it was almost as if the neighbor knew that one of the main reasons that Jaskier despised them was due to Hellebore because they would _play_ some of their best music back at Jaskier in retaliation. _Bastards._

If they wanted a war, Jaskier supposed he could fight a couple more dumbasses.


End file.
